


Lullabies for a Newborn World

by filiabelialis



Category: Planeshift Fictional TV Series Campaign
Genre: Fluff, Gen, planeshift gen 2, they're all a giant and dysfunctional family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filiabelialis/pseuds/filiabelialis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort of fic, sort of meta, all about the lullabies the planar heroes sing to their kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullabies for a Newborn World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polarisnorth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarisnorth/gifts).



Kotasha, Dyr and Tsadok’s first daughter, is born with a very healthy pair of lungs. It’s a comfort, in its own way, to know that if his child is in trouble, he will almost certainly hear it, but Tsadok also looks forward to a full night of sleep again with much anticipation. He tries to be the one to get up in the middle of the night, since he knows Dyr will have to rise with the sun in any case, but Dyr insists on taking turns as much as she can manage it. What this means in practice is that she often gets up and sees to the baby before he can make a move to stop her.

 

He wakes one night not to Kotasha crying—a miracle, that it didn’t stir him—but to Dyr’s voice. She’s singing, in a jogging way that sounds like she’s bouncing Kotasha gently to soothe her. She’s singing in orcish, which is more unusual—while Dyr is becoming increasingly fluent, Tsadok can’t think where she would have learned an orcish song that is also suitable to sing to an infant. Listening further, he hears that it’s one stanza repeated, playful and gentle:

 

 

Za za, z’foshnu uhurijat,

‘Tasha, z’foshnu shum zhurmat,

Z’miburr agh z’orka,

Flo z’krahi-ishi,

At koh kandog agh koh hoshat.

 

(*Cry cry*, my baby is wailing,

‘Tasha, my baby, so noisey,

My pride and my power,

Sleep in my arms,

There is a time for singing and for silence.)

 

[Listen: Kotasha's Lullaby](https://soundcloud.com/amiel-528090042/lullaby-for-kotasha)

 

She stops singing to smile at him as he comes into the room. Kotasha is dead to the world. “You invented that,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” she smiles again, lopsidedly. “Lucky for me she’s a baby, and isn’t going to critique for quality.”

 

He walks to her, and gathers them both into his arms. He places a kiss on top of Dyr’s head. “It’s wonderful,” he tells her. “We should make one for every child we have.”

 

**

 

It’s a beautiful thought, and Dyr is, in theory, completely on board, but she knows the limits of her creativity. When Little Asmun is born, she asks Skjaldi to help her.

 

Skjaldi knows that this request is personal; Dyr wants a song from her friend, rather than the Great Bard. So Skjaldi tries to make it personal. Skjaldi loves the cadence of dwarvish music, and so sets it to the tune of a dwarvish lullaby, low and steady, and makes a few versions in her first language, as well. Dyr thinks they’re so pretty that she learns how to sing them. She keeps one for her second daughter, Little Asmun:

 

Ar Ard-Neamh e garadhen,

Ut luthmhor colanch grungnaz:

e Asmun ceilin de mo mor Rinn,

Anadund leek arau Azgalaz.

 

Tamh gute caileig alainn,

Tamh gute undiverr de olor leibhidh,

Tamh gute ihainnoo Rinn,

Groa bitr un trealbhaidh

 

(From high heaven to the underdark,

We powerful comrades promise:

To Asmun daughter of our great queen,

We will hold you safe as greatest treasure.

 

Sleep well lovely little girl,

Sleep well hope of all our people,

Sleep well infant queen,

Grow brave and come of age.)

 

And one for Jamos, her first son and third child:

 

Wanrak aklu a ok

(sa, um, sa, um)

Beatha a Karag ek an dok,

(sa, um, sa, um)

 

Und langk traa bin ek ruvalkzan

(da dum dum dum)

Ek aisling anstrol cooidjagh croilean.

As skauda gnath skaud bin ceann.

 

(If you listen skillfully,

[sa um sa um (like breathing)]

You can percieve the breath of the mountain.

[sa um sa um]

 

Keep a long beat in your blood,

[da dum dum dum (like heartbeat)]

Your dreams will roam together in a a little flock,

And sing the right songs in your head.)

 

**

 

The fourth, for her daughter Ayailla, is serendipitous; Asmun the elder happens to be holding the baby when the Force dragon decides to pay its champion a visit. It is little more than a child itself, though it fills the great hall of the imperial palace, in its natural form. It greets them all enthusiastically, then peers down with interest at the (now crying) bundle in its champion’s arms.

 

“What is that?”

 

“It’s a human baby—my sister’s. You can look, but you have to be very careful. She’s very, very fragile.”

 

“Does she always make that noise?”

 

“No,” says Asmun, calm in a very tense room. She is accustomed to her dragon’s inquisitiveness. “She’s just upset, because she woke up, and she doesn’t know how to speak her unhappiness yet.”

 

The young Force dragon leans in close, and seems to think for a second. Then it opens its mouth the tiniest crack. Music flows out, pulled seemingly from thin air—from the fabric of the world, say those in the room with a better sense of magic. The sound is slow, and cosmically huge, but soft, indescribable. It’s so beautiful that it loosens laughter and tears in every mortal being that hears it. When the dragon is finished, Asmun’s cheeks are completely wet. The baby is asleep.

 

Ayailla, it is noted, is blessed with peaceful sleep throughout her entire life.

 

**

 

By the time Dyr has her fifth and final child, a son called Thoben, Aja pulls her aside.

 

“I didn’t want to presume,” says Aja, before she makes her request. “I know this is more Skjaldi’s territory.”

 

“I’d be honored if you would,” says Dyr. She’s heard a little of Aja and Gwinna’s gentle arguments, conversations drawn out over weeks for their difficulty, and because the two Outsiders have the luxury of decades. Aja sorely wants her own children to sing to. Gwinna is less sure, and, Dyr suspects, more than a little afraid. Dyr doesn’t know how old she herself will be, if they ever conclude this conversation, but she can do (and accept) this favor right now.

 

Aja composes in Celestial because it is beautiful, and easy for her, and because she knows Dyr already speaks it. It is a language that lends itself to choral arrangements; the real trick is making it something one parent or two can sing on their own.

 

Dormi, mi fili, dormi –

sunt qui dicunt

vitam beatam esse:

dicunt, dicant, nesciunt.

 

Dormi, mi fili, dormi –

veniet dies

quo tibi erit

larga, largissima quies.

 

Dormi, mi fili, dormi –

aderit mox

mihi, tum tibi

ultima, optima nox.

 

(Come to bed, my child, lie down again -

those who say

life is happy:

They say, they say, they do not know.

 

Come to bed, my child, lie down again -

the day will come

where you will be

generous, with a great quiet.

 

Come to bed, my child, lie down again -

it will be here soon

for me and you

the final, best night.)

 

Aja rehearses it with Dyr, and with Tsadok, and smiles with only a little sadness as she watches them sing it together.

 

**

 

Dyr and Tsadok’s children are among the first, but are far from the only children to come from the planar heroes.

 

Lowen and the Green have more hatchlings than anyone can count (though that is, in part, because they all move so much, so quickly, and so…non-linearly). Lowen sings to them in elvish, though nothing traditional; Lowen can’t remember her mother ever singing. The whole group of them will sometimes come in from play at the same time, but Lowen, though she might be in the middle of work, or conversation, never fails to greet them, and often to hold them, pick them up and dandle them, and sing songs that she’s picked up from other elven mothers as she travels around the patchwork plane. Her favorite is playful, faespeak and elvish mixed together:

 

Mi norath annui di Anor

Loth Echuir aen eriar,

Gelaidh tuiar aen, nin rimmar,

Fillig merin linnar.

Egor annas du alfanui

Brethil lilthol celir

‘eil edhellin, silivrin mir,

Min finnel ngylfui.

 

(In western lands beneath the Sun

The flowers may rise in Spring,

The trees may bud, the waters run,

The merry finches sing.

Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night

And swaying beeches bear

The Elven-stars as jewels white

Amid their branching hair.)

 

She sings a sadder one, too, when they are all asleep, curled together in a pile; she keeps her voice soft, because it isn’t supposed to wake them. It’s not supposed to be heard by anyone but her.

 

Melinyel melda lapsit,

Nán alassëa alasselyanen.

A hauta sinomë n'uir,

Mara este, a ricë alassen.

 

Alagi lim, má autuvat?

Va autuval, va autuval.

 

(I love you, beloved babies,

Your joy makes me joyous.

Rest here forever,

Sleep well, strive for happiness.

 

You grow so fast, when will you leave me?

Don’t leave, don’t leave.)

 

The Green speaks lovingly to her children, but she does not sing. Neither does Aleia—“I don’t have any kind of singing voice!” she protests, and instead fetches snacks and water for any one of them that asks for it, and gathers them around her and tells them the most wonderful stories: stories of their mothers’ exploits that the bards of the kingdom don’t tell, and don’t even know. Dyr and Tsadok’s children and Zeth’s copperlings like to join in whenever possible, but it is a treat reserved by Aleia only so long as Lowen’s hatchlings are there to listen.

 

Asmun, however, will sing to them, despite her voice lacking some sweetness. As she says, it doesn’t matter, because she can carry a tune. She’s had practice with the hymns written in the texts of all in Pelor’s service, and with the ones composed and sung in her village and region alone. She knows the clerics of her village will never let those words die, no matter where they go or how much they intermingle with all the people of all the parts of the plane—but these are the last songs that will ever come from the village in which she was born, because it doesn’t exist anymore. She sings them while she works, and she sings them while cradling Dyr’s newborns, and to Lowen and the Green’s hatchlings while they are huddled together in bed (the Green doesn’t like anyone but Lowen and herself holding them):

 

Morning has broken like the first morning  
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird  
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning  
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word

 

Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from Heaven  
Like the first dewfall on the first grass  
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden  
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

 

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning  
Born of the one light, ‘Lysium saw play  
Praise with elation, praise every morning  
God's recreation of the new day

 

Morning has broken like the first morning  
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird  
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning  
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word

 

[Listen: Morning Has Broken](https://soundcloud.com/jokerwoman/morning-has-broken)

 

It has happened on more than one occasion that while she sings them to sleep, a little one will pipe up with “but it’s not morning!” as this draws to a close.

 

Asmun takes this in stride; she will gasp in mock surprise, walk to the window and fling the curtains open for a look. “My goodness, you’re right! My mistake,” she’ll say, and then close the curtains, pull the covers up around them, and give them all a kiss goodnight.

 

**

 

Elliwick is of the opinion that if she made the decision not to have children, she should not be the one to manage a crying child. As such, she doesn’t so much soothe children—but she can entertain them. There is a Gnomish patter song which accompanies a clapping game, both of which she’s taught to the kids old enough to appreciate it:

 

Drii, drii-tar, drii-tel elmar

Avo u sil, celeb uf unwar

Lii iindor curuwar

Lii taruiithron Sootar

 

(Two, two hundred, two thousand million,

Money of gold, silver from Uncle

Some for the head wizard

Some for my old mother.)

 

She doesn’t remember the context for the rhyme—it’s mostly nonsense now. The object is to sing the whole tongue twister with increasing speed, while also increasing the speed of your hands. Many of the kids love it, but Zeth’s copperlings are hands down—so to speak—the best at it. They even beat Zeth, who despite being the adult in the situation, is a sore loser. They’re all practicing together and waiting for the day that one of them will beat Elliwick herself.

 

Gwinna is also more than happy to entertain children who are old enough to understand her, but too young to learn the druidic arts. Much to the surprise of her friends and partners—who know that she can’t sing a note—she can imitate the call of nearly any creature.

 

Of course, the question is no longer whether she can, but whether she will: ever since Dusk and Zeth convinced all the children to request a bullfrog call, separately and one after the other, Gwinna does not demonstrate this talent freely.

 

Zeth doesn’t sing lullabies. Zeth waits until the first children reach early adolescence, then teaches them the most obnoxious (and moderately bawdy) songs she knows. And then blames it on the Copper.

 

**

 

Tsadok doesn’t have as much time as he’d like for it now, but he travelled extensively with Stone and her band of mercenaries before leading the orcs or meeting Dyr and her friends. Even before dipping into all that he hears from the planar heroes’ mouths, he has much to draw from, when he wants to sing. One of his favorites is from the mercenaries themselves.

 

He first heard it on the road with them, between cities and between bouts in the fighting rings of the Underground; one of their number could play the guitar proficiently, and often broke out this song as the last around the campfire. He sang it to Tsadok, when he was barely adolescent and indignant about being treated like a child; he sang it to Tsadok and the others later, to rally courage and hope—on nights when they could barely summon the strength to hold conversation, he could finish the song with the whole camp shouting along. He sang it, later, to his own children, when the group had a chance to drop in on the right town to visit them.

 

(Tsadok doesn’t sing it around him, now—they haven’t found his family, since the planes shifted.)

 

Now Tsadok sings it to keep the song alive, and to keep up the spirit of whichever young one he sings it to. He doesn’t just sing it to his own children, nor even just the children of the Planar Heroes. He sings it to whatever child he finds that needs comfort or encouragement, a gentle tease or the gentlest love. Every child deserves someone to sing to them, he thinks, be they wandering scared in the wilderness, or woken in the wee hours from a nightmare. It shouldn’t matter, the circumstances. That’s how he is found on many occasions, by Dyr or friends or servants or even the occasional foreign dignitary: with his bass voice quieting to a hum, and a little one fast asleep, leaning against his chest. 

 

 

There's a monster that lives ‘neath your bed  
Oh for crying out loud it's a pallet on the floor  
He must be flat as a board  
  
There's a creature that lurks behind the door  
Though I've checked there 15 times   
When I leave then he arrives  
Every night  
  
Tell the monster that lives ‘neath your bed  
To go somewhere else instead  
Or you'll kick him in the head  
  
Tell the creature that lurks behind the door  
If he knows what's good he won't come here anymore   
Cause you'll kick his butt at the count of four  
  
Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight  
Now it's time to close your tired eyes  
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride  
If they see you coming, hell they better hide  
  
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight  
Goodnight my little slayer goodnight  
  
Tell the monster that eats children, that you taste bad  
And you're sure you'd be the worst that he's ever had  
If he eats you, don't you fret, just cut him open with an axe  
Don't regret it, he deserved it, he's a cad  
  
Tell the harpies that land on your bed post  
That at the count of five you'll roast them alive  
Tell the devil its time you gave him his due  
He should go back to hell, he should shake in his shoes  
Cause the mightiest, scariest, creature is you  
  
Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight  
Now it's time to close your tired eyes  
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride  
If they see you coming, hell they better hide  
  
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight  
Goodnight my little slayer goodnight  
  
I won't tell you, there's nothing ‘neath your bed  
I won't tell you, that it's all in your head  
This world of ours is not as it seems  
The monsters are real but not in your dreams  
Learn what you can from the beasts you defeat,   
you'll need it for some of the people you meet  
  
Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight  
Now it's time to close your tired eyes  
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride  
If they see you coming, hell they better hide  
  
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight  
Goodnight my little slayer goodnight  
  
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight  
Goodnight

 

[LIsten: Goodnight Demonslayer](https://soundcloud.com/mcbshadow/goodnight-demon-slayer)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the lullabies here were composed by me (Dyr’s lullaby for Kotasha, Skjaldi’s lullabies for Little Asmun and Jamos, Lowen’s second lullaby, and Elliwick’s chanting game), and some were lifted wholesale from other sources. Aja’s lullaby for Thoben was written by Johannes Alexander Gaertner; Lowen’s first lullaby was a poem by Tolkien, originally, then was translated here http://tara.istad.org/translations.htm; Asmun’s lullaby is actually “Morning Has Broken,” arranged by Cat Stevens and originally an Episcopalian hymn--I couldn’t NOT think of Pelor when I heard it; and Tsadok’s lullaby is “Goodnight Demonslayer,” by none other than Voltaire—the singer, not the playwright. I didn’t record all of them because I CANNOT SING, but I hoped people would submit their own recordings! I had the vague idea that Skjaldi’s lullaby for Little Asmun would fit the tune of Byssan Lull http://aph-nordicroots.tumblr.com/post/27755786534/nordics-lullabies, but really, anything would make me happy.


End file.
